It is time for a reprise of this poem from a couple of years ago.
Most of the Nativity scenes we have come to know,
those pictures of Mary looking rested,
confident and clean,
serene and smiling,
looking comfortable...
They don’t depict the weariness,
the immobilizing exhaustion
of hard labor,
nor the
all-consuming effort
it takes
to push a baby out into this world,
nor the blood and
amniotic fluid,
nor the expelled placenta
that needed to be cleaned up
after the birth.
Those scenes the artists render
of spotless robes
and a tidy stable (or cave)
with cozy light...
They don’t depict the manure on the floor,
nor livestock urinating into their bedding,
nor the interior’s darkness illumined only
by candle light.
Surely there were mice in the straw.
Were there rats?
Did Mary nervously notice
every sound of scurrying
around her?
How did she ever sleep?
Of course the baby would be laid
in the feeding trough.
Where else?
Set up off the floor,
the safest and cleanest spot
available.
Were there cows?
Did they amble over
to the manger,
to sniff, and lick,
and welcome Jesus
as the new baby in their midst,
as cows are prone to do?
Did Joseph keep a wary eye
the attending animals’
curious attention
to his
newly-born son?
The historic birth was
far more miraculous than we
might imagine.
Jesus survived.
So did Mary.
And all the detail not depicted
in the artists’ renditions
makes Mary
one of us.
And makes Jesus, whom she bore
by the sweat of her brow,
one of us.
One with us.
Emmanuel.
